Witch
by RennaEsprit
Summary: The loneliness kills. In every one hundred eight minutes something dies. Something in my heart, something in my soul. And it’s inevitable and irreversible process. AlexDesmond
1. Chapter 1

**Title**: Witch

**Author**: Renna, lj userrennaesprit 

**Rating**: R for some strong language and sex with teenage girl

**Pairing**: Desmond/Alex, hints of Ben/Juliet

**Spoilers**: general spoilers to all three seasons

**Status:** part 1 of (?)

**Summary**: The loneliness kills. In every one hundred eight minutes something dies. Something in my heart, something in my soul. And it's inevitable and irreversible process.

**Disclaimer: **not mine

Special thanks to **Needle** and** Fadingspark **, my wonderful betas. You know how much I love you

_All God's children needs travelling shoes_

_Drive your problems from here_

_All good people read good books_

_Now your conscience is clear _

_Now your conscience is clear_

_In the morning, when I wipe my brow_

_Wipe the miles away_

_I like to think that I can be so willed_

_And never do what you say_

_And never do what you say_

_**Tanita Tikaram "Twist In My Sobriety"**_

You're smiling at me from the old dull photo. You were so happy, so happy and even now I remember how happy I was too.

You loved me. Maybe, maybe it was so. And I love you, there's no doubt. That's true, that's certainly true. But do not wait for me anymore. You will never want to see what I've become.

Sometimes I want to tear this photo to pieces …

In moments of despair people pray to God. During these moments of despair people long for each other, search for help and support. During these moments of despair people search for rescue in many respects, but none of these simple, habitual and normal means were accessible to me. None.

Seconds, minutes, hours, days, months, years … Tick-tock, tick-tock, one hundred eight minutes plus one hundred eight minutes plus one hundred eight plus one hundred eight… I'm sleeping, I'm awaking, I'm sleeping, I'm reading, I'm sleeping, I'm eating, I'm training, I'm sleeping … all in one hundred eight minutes. One hundred eight minutes for all. Then a break. And than again, all starts again. Tick-tock, tick-tock.

Days are similar, from one to another – twins. What's the date today? What's the _day _today? Is it Monday or Friday? Is it Tuesday or Saturday?

Who knows, who knows… Not me, that's the point.

In Scotland it must be winter now. If I close my eyes I can to picture the snow. It's white, virgin white and pure and shining under the cold January sun. I am able to picture the daring boys throwing snowballs; reddened from the frost, in multi-coloured jackets and cheerful caps. Whiteness and colorfulness.

"Have you ever seen a snow, Radzinsky?" I'm asking. He's silent. I secretly would've been surprised if he had answered. I think he knew the snow well, before ending up here. He knew it, 'cause he's probably from Russia. In his strange Russia there would be a lot of snow. In his strange far Russia, where on the streets are sleeping snow polar bears who go and play on balalaikas. In his strange Russia, where all days begin with a bottle of vodka. In his far Russia … well, I don't really know much about his strange Russia.

"Could you ever imagine that you would end up stuck here, in the damn jungle?" I'm asking again. And again. And Radzinsky isn't answering and he won't answer, 'cause he doesn't even hear my screams. I just need to talk to someone. I just need… or I'll lose my mind.

If I already haven't.

Days, hours, minutes, seconds.

The squeak of the alarm rushes into my restless dreams and intertwines in them, mixes up with my strange, freakin' dreams in which my past life alternates with that nightmare. The squeak of the alarm is an awful sound with which I shudder, involuntarily clamping my hands to ears. I don't want to hear this vile squeak anymore, I don't want to look at the clock, I don't want to bang on keys, hoping, that now, right now, I can enter a code. I don't want to whisper the numbers don't want to afraid, afraid… To forget the numbers? Well, I'll never forget it.

Never.

I want to sleep, to sleep in normal way as all people do. Eight hours per day, maybe from eleven p.m. till seven a.m. I want to watch the evening news break, I want to know, what has occurred in England today. I want to wake up at seven - and maybe not alone – I want to drink coffee and eat toast, maybe with some jam. I want to have breakfast before going for a work.

I want to walk in the park on Sundays. I want to sit on a bench near the pond and feed the ducks. I want to feel the rain, such familiar and such habitual English rain, drizzling long, long, long. I want a break of this fucking hot sun, burning like a searing hot glass ball. I want it to die someday.

My head is screaming. Air in the hatch is hot and heavy and heady. All around my eyes is blurring, all my thoughts are confused, I feel sick, sick again, and I can't seem to recover in any way.

I haven't sleep for hundreds of nights.

"Tell me, Radzinsky, was Calvin always the same motherfucking son of bitch? Or was it you, you Radzinsky, who'd fuck Calvin in the way he fucked me? You told him that strange fairy tale and brought him here, to this fucking hatch? You told him that he's rescuing the world every hundred eight minutes? Why don't you answer? Am I wrong?"

I never knew Radzinsky. And wouldn't like to know, never would like to know. But for many fucking long months he is the only person I can talk to. So I sit down and look up and speak. Doesn't matter what about – I just speak.

The day Radzinsky answers me, I will finally know that I've lost my mind.

The loneliness kills. Every one hundred eight minutes something dies. Something in my heart, something in my soul. And it's inevitable and irreversible process.

I dream about that day, when I'll hear a voice. A human voice. Not my own and not an echo of my own. A voice of another human.

The hostiles. Calvin spoke about the hostiles on this island, so many of them. But I haven't saw anybody, I saw none of them. I think Calvin lied. There's nobody here but me.

I was wandering the island, vainly hoping to meet someone. I was risking probably, six billion lives only to be convinced, that I'm alone here. Every time I did leave, I'd end up rushing into the hatch, breathing heavily, and falling into the chair, entering the code with hasty, shivering hands. Always in the last minute, in the last seconds.

And so that was that – day after day, one hundred eight minutes after one hundred eight minutes. Again, again and again – the whole fucking time.

But then one day I saw _her_.


	2. Chapter 2

_Cut my tongue out_

_I've been caught out_

_Like a giant juggernaut_

_Happy hours_

_Golden showers_

_On a cruise to freak you out_

_When I grow up_

_I'll be stable_

_When I grow up_

_I'll turn the tables_

_**Garbage "When I grow up"**_

All my life I dreamt to be mature. To wake up once in the morning and to know that I had somehow become grown-up. I dreamed about the day when Ben (or Goodwin or Ethan or Juliet or anybody) will open the door to my room and tell me that now that I'm twelve (or thirteen or fourteen) years old, I'm mature enough to devote myself to the secrets of our community.

Almost every morning I peer into a mirror, studying my own face. And I think that today I look older than yesterday. Today I'm smarter. I'm grown up.

Am I grown up?

Every time when I asked adults, about it they answered "Not yet". Sometimes the words are different, but it's always the same meaning. No.

Bea scowled and said even if I wear her make-up and her high-heeled shoes I wouldn't be grown-up. I'm just a silly little girl. Juliet said that to be mature isn't as great that it seems. "Adults have problems, much more than you Alex … Sometimes I wish I would turn back time and become a baby girl again …"

Goodwin smiled at me and said that I'm mature enough to study many interesting things but not enough to know all the secrets. I should grow up a little more and then it would be enough.

And Ben … actually I never really dared to ask this question to Ben.

My other dream was to fall in love. To fall in love just like it happens in books, when your heart fades into the background and then your heartbeat becomes so quick and your knees are weak and the only one who matters is my beloved.

Juliet tries to teach me French and Latin. It's difficult for me to learn foreign languages, cause I don't understand the necessity of these lessons. All the people around me speak English. Tom says that someone does it better then the others, but for me everyone speaks almost equally. Juliet explains that my life may turn in unexpected ways, and maybe someday my knowledge would be useful. A stumpy book about rare herbs is written in Latin, the one that Juliet and Ben force me to study. Ethan told me a little secret once; he told me that I should be our new doctor.

But the botany is as boring to me as learning the other languages. I prefer to do something more interesting than learning by heart Latin names of herbs and flowers. I know the majority of them already off the top of my head. Like a dwarfish birch, for example.

Today Juliet – maybe trying to interest me – reads me a Latin statement: "_Cras amet qui numquam amavit quique amavit eras cmet_".

"Try to translate it" she says.

I finger the edge of my shirt, the one that Ethan has recently forbidden me to wear outside the house.

"_You don't like it?" I asked surprised a bit by his intention and tone. _

"_I like it," he muttered. "So don't wear it" _

I'm staying silent and Juliet scowls. She's always remains quiet, doesn't like to shout like Bea, but I know that it's rather dangerous to annoy Juliet. She can tell Ben about me and my disobedience and no one in our camp knows how Ben will take it.

"We've passed these words, Alex," says Juliet "And I gave you two hundred words to learn by heart. Did you do that?"

"No," I answer honestly. Goodwin told me about lies; if you lie frequently you're not a good person. And I want to be a good person, like everybody in our camp.

Juliet shrugs her shoulders and rises. I know that she is going to leave and I start to feel shameful of my actions.

"I'm sorry, Juliet, I couldn't do it in time …" I begin to explain but she won't hear my excuses.

"I thought I could be proud of you," she throws and hasty leaves the room. I think she's upset, but it could hardly be because of my unlearned lesson. You need to do something more significant if you want to upset Juliet.

"Watch your back and trust no one," says Goodwin, reluctantly releasing me into the jungle. I have asked for it for a long time, assuring him that it's necessary for me to collect fresh herbs and make a calming extract for Juliet. I feel guilty and it's a very unpleasant feeling. I knew I was wrong and I need to apologize. That's the term that I must remember.

I want Goodwin to come with me. I like to wander with him on jungle. He knows so much about our world, he can tell me the most fascinating stories, and in his company I always feel good. Goodwin never gets mad at me, never reproves me, and it feels like he cares about me more than anybody else.

But today Goodwin is all about his mysterious work, and I feel thrown and unwanted.

I watch my back. The jungle is the same as usual, and there are no aliens in it. I was told that on our island there lives a mad woman and a not-less mad men, but I am assured that I won't meet them. I've never met them before, so why should I meet them now?

In my searches I go further and further from our camp. I lay my way among green bushes and fruit trees. The birds are singing and the sun is shining; I feel good, like there was no unpleasant quarrel with Juliet this morning.

And suddenly I hear a scream.

It is not similar to human; it's a scream of any strange creature Stephen King writes about. Desperate, heart-breaking scream, as if it's going to die and nobody can help it.

I shudder and stop. I'm scared and perhaps it's the first time in my life where I'm _so_ scared.

And there is the curiosity. Goodwin told me to watch my back and, yep, I want to look. I want to see it and maybe, maybe I can help it.

He lies on the ground, motionlessly, lifelessly. I can't see his face but he's definitely a human. I think he's dead already.

I can't believe that it was he; that he screamed so, but the sound was from here. Maybe there was a mythical monster and he has won it. And now he's dying. I kneel beside him and don't dare to help him, because I'm scared. Because I'm afraid.

My hands shake. And my knees shiver. And I want to run, run, run away, away from here. But I can't. I'm a good person.

Cautiously, slowly, step by step I come closer to him. Almost silently, as they taught me.

Inches of distance between us melt like an ice cubes on hot summer sun. Just one more step. Just one more...

I stop.

Never before, never in a whole life I was so frightened and so intrigued.

Never before.

And suddenly he sharply lifts a head and looks directly at me.


	3. Chapter 3

_Fuck them all!_

_Faites l'amour_

_Nous la guerre_

_Nos vies àl'envers_

_Fuck them all!_

_Faites l'amour_

_Nous la guerre_

_Saigner: notre enfer!_

**_Mylene Farmer "Fuck Them All"_**

****

I sleep and in my dream I suddenly wake up because of cold. The window is entirely covered by ice patterns; only in the top there remains a small piece of unfrozen glass through which I see the dark winter sky and bright star sparkles. It seems to me, that it's Christmas today, and comprehension of it fills my soul with reverential delight.

I get up and come out in a dark, empty corridor. The floor is cold and it burns like a icy fire. Then I do the next step and then the next and the next and it hurts. I try to understand where I am, I try to recollect anything about this corridor and where does it conduct, but I have no obvious thought; me memory is like a black hole filled by absolute emptiness.

The light flickers in the end of a corridor. It's changing from dimly yellow to dazzling white, and this light calls me, attracts me by the illusory images of people who are unfamiliar but who I should know. Among them there's a woman or a girl; I can't see her face, only vague and degraded outlines. She's like a fairy from the Christmas fairytales; she's thin and flexible and it seems to me that above her head ther's a nimbus like above sacra's heads.

I go forward and forward and forward. Inch by inch, step by step. Nearer, nearer and nearer, trying to catch the escaping mirage, the escaping dream and the disappearing dream. Step by step, step by step …

And light goes further and further, it leaves, escapes, hides from me.

And I run, I run as fast as I can, run to the dying away sparkles of light, dying away sparkles of hope. The weariness holds me down, entangles a heavy, pressing shroud and pulls downwards, downwards and downwards. And I fall.

Cold floor, bitty cold floor; and I nestle on it with my unnaturally hot forehead. I breathe hard and frequently. And light disappears, disappears, disappears… just a couple of minutes and I'll remain alone in darkness. Where's no hope, no even gleam of hope.

Squeak of the alarm breaks off my restless dream, breaks off on pieces and breaks into one thousand splinters.

"Tell me, Radzinsky, would it be better, if I was lost during that storm? Would it be better, if I never stepped on the coast of this island? Do not answer, I know, it would be better"

I close my eyes. I'm like Odyssey started up in the longest journey. My ship was broke in the black rocks, and I'm the captive of this island, I'm enticed here by pointless and false promises.

Sometimes I want to die. To die like Radzinsky; to start up a bullet in my forehead and to remain myself a nameless spot on the dirty ceiling.

And sometimes it seems to me, that I'm already dead. I'm dead for a long time, now is the second year after my funeral. And everything that I see, that I feel and that I touch is my posthumous dream, my posthumous nightmare. I'm in a purgatory. Yes, I'm in a purgatory, and I trust that it's not a hell. But sometimes my belief leaves me.

"What did you do in the moment like this, Radzinsky?"

He's silent.

My life's like hallucinations. One replaces another, one behind one, and they mix up, develop, plait in a freakish, phantasmagoric picture.

Four, eight, fifteen, sixteen, twenty three, forty two. I whisper these numbers as a pray, every time before a dream or meal, at midday and midnight. I remember, I remember, I remember … and I can't forget, even if I want to.

I dream about a chain of traces on the friable ground. Sixteen traces leading in the jungle. I dream about smart traps – twenty three smart traps which I try to bypass, but I can't. I dream about wreaths on my own gravestone - eight wreaths. Even in my dreams, even in my dreams the Numbers don't leave me.

It's an incessant nightmare.

And I need to make something, to make something to stop, to keep myself on the edge of madness. And then, after all I'll be able to creep out upward, to creep out gradually, inch by inch, I'll be able to return back.

I hate this island, I hate this hatch and I hate my silent interlocutor.

"Why are you looking at me, Radzinsky?"

I sleep and in my dream I see that I run, run through the dense underbrush, and I scream. I scream something, I scream something to someone, but I can't understand what exactly and to whom exactly. And then I fall on warm ground and I'm lying. I'm lying motionlessly.

I hear a rustle of leaves. I hear rustle of a dense grass. And it seems to me, that I hear someone's steps.

If I lift my head the mirage will thaw. I'll wake up and I'll be alone again.

Now I'm sleeping.

And in my dream I know that there's somebody beside me. And if I just stretch a hand and I'll be able to touch somebody. I'll feel warmth, inexpressibly pleasant warmth of living creature. There's someone, there's someone costs beside, there's someone looking at me.

It just a dream, a dream, a dream …

I blink.

And now I'll wake up. I'll wake up. I'll wake up.

And I sharply lift my head. Sharply. First I see is only trees, only a slice of the bright blue sky above the tops of trees. And then I see her.

It's like someone has turned the switch. It's like someone has turned the switch and lit the dazzling bright light. It's like someone has turned the switch, lit the dazzling bright light and it has disseminated the twilight shadows filled all around.

And the infinite despair which has captured me starts to dissipate. Starts to dissipate like water flows away in opened discharge.

I see her. She's standing beside me. I see her so precisely and clearly and I can distinguish each flower on her light dress.

She's a child. She's almost a child, she's caught in the middle between innocent charm of the childhood and vicious charm of a youth. She has a long dark hair, and they are twisted, and rings of ringlets were disobediently scattered on her naked shoulders. Her pale lips slightly shiver. And her green, glaucous eyes aren't such bright as the greens of jungle, they're paler and dimmer. If she was the fairy, hallucination, she must be bright. Sparkling and shone. She must be beautiful. But she looks like an ordinary girl. Like a child. Like a savage.

And she has a roughly cut off nails, scratched knees and her anklebones bitten by mosquitoes. Her dress is soiled by a grass and juice of some fruit. And there's a bunch of a strange kind of plants in her hands, and she's look like witch.

In the middle ages she would be burned on the fire.

And I'm laughing, laughing madly and hoarsely, I'm laughing and looking at her. I can feel her surprise and her fright she looks at me as the rabbit on a boa. And like the tired out victim looks on a predator. And I'm just laughing.

And finally I stretch my hand to touch her. Just to be convinced, that she's real.

She quickly jumps aside, jumps quickly, dexterously, habitually. Then she throws on me the last scared sight and escapes. Only the grass there where she stood tramples down under her foots. And the large leaves of an undersized bush tremble when she ran away.

"Stop" I shout to her "Stop, you, little bitch, not so fast!"

She has disappeared. Without any trace, without any sign of her presence.

"Bitch!" I scream again and again "Damn witch!"

I know she'll never be back. I know it and I scream, yell and damn her, again, again and again.

And then I fall again.

I feel warm. I feel cold. And I'm empty.

The loneliness kills. And the weak sparkles of hope occasionally flashing in my soul only help the ruthless executioner to make his the work. Only help it.

"Come back. Please, come back"

"Yes, I'm a bad man, Radzinsky" I'm laughing again and again.

I enter the Numbers; I made a mistake and laughing. And then I correct myself.

"But not you'll judge me, brother. You've never feel like this, haven't you? So shut up, Radzinsky. Shut up, shut up, shut up"

Execute.

Get up and go forward, forward and forward where our stocks are kept.

"I'll catch you, a fucking witch. I'll catch you, damn girl. If you are real, I'll catch you."

Stuff, stuff and stuff and I throw it out, out and out, all superfluous of a chest. Not that, not that and not that.

It's until my hand comes across cold metal. A shiny cold metal. And I slowly take it out. There's the bracelet dimly gleaming on my palm, the bracelet I have bought as a gift to Penelope.

Penelope Widmore. Penny. Pen.

Her name's like a flash. Flash of memoirs in my suffering mind. Memoirs about her, about the woman I love. Pen.

Somewhere here must be a photo. A dim, old photo from which you smile to me. Penny.

I push away the bracelet and close my eyes, 'cause I don't want to see it any more. I don't want to remember, to recollect…

I rush on a bed, and cover myself with a blanket.

"You'll get in my trap, witch. You will be mine."


End file.
